


a falling star (and other troubles of the heart)

by fraldarian



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Felix is Sophie, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sylvain is Howl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraldarian/pseuds/fraldarian
Summary: Felix Fraldarius is a milliner by trade until he's cursed by the infamous Witch of the Waste. Travelling in search of a cure, he comes across Sylvain, an infamous wizard knowing for stealing the hearts of those unlucky enough to become ensnared.A journey of self discovery, makeshift families, and learning what it means to follow your heart.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Glenn Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	a falling star (and other troubles of the heart)

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on twitter @fraldarian for more!  
> all the art in this fic was drawn by @beargoofs on twitter.

When Sylvain first makes his appearance in Fraldarius Territory, it is not with a bang, it is not with a snap, and it is not with a crackle. It’s more like opening a door to find the cool breeze of a Faerghus winter snapping at your loins and threatening the noses of children. It’s subtle, and dangerous, and yet somehow gains the attention of others regardless.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius is twenty, and he is stuck in his millinery workspace when Sylvain’s castle comes into view. It’s not that he sees it himself, considering the steam locomotive has just made its rounds, and as such his windows are shrouded by smog. But he hears it from Glenn, who is about to leave with his father.

“Come, Felix. You have done enough work for today. Let us enjoy the rest of the afternoon.” Rodrigue is dressed in a fine top hat, made of a silken navy Felix had specifically picked out. It compliments the wave of his locks and the thin facial hair that decorates his upper lip.

“I’m fine.” His response is clipped, to the point. He doesn’t look up as his hands continue threading a sharp needle. “I have little to do outside. My attention lies elsewhere.”

It doesn't soothe his father, but Rodrigue turns and leaves regardless. He’s about to exit through the front door when Glenn, who is now the fine age of twenty-six, turns to the window. “Look! It’s Sylvain’s castle.” There’s disbelief in his brother’s voice. “What is he doing here?”

It’s enough to cause a stirring from Felix, who now peers with the tilt of a head and the falling of raven bangs at a shape in the distance. It’s almost obscured by the settling fog which drapes over the shepherds and their herds alike, but it’s there. It’s there, and its ancient joints are creaking, echoing like a siren down into the mountain valley.

“He’s just passing through. From the warplanes overhead.” The distant thrum of plane engines can be heard, and there’s smog trails that exit from behind. Felix stares solemnly - war is not new here. Not since the Empire declared an act of conflict against the Kingdom.

“Better not go outside, Felix.” It’s Glenn now, a smirk to his face as he leans against the doorframe of his room. “You hear what happened to the last bloke who saw Sylvain? Apparently, that wizard stole his heart right from his chest. Crushed it into pieces.” There’s a sour laugh, one that edges on teasing. “But you have nothing to worry about, do you? You’ve never been privy to wandering eyes.”

Felix only casts a glower Glenn’s way. It’s enough to elicit a sharp laugh, but before long, the house falls quiet. Rodrigue has left, and so has Glenn. He imagines it is to see the military parade - they never told him.

There are numerous events that would lead to Felix meeting Sylvain. The first among them was when the ground shook and quivered, and the train passed by once more. Felix had placed down the hat he had been working on, then unknotted his apron, tossing it to the side. His sigh had been barely audible as he’d collected his peacoat, slinging it over his arm.

Not much makes up the Fraldarius hat shop. It’s quaint and quiet, and that’s how Felix likes it. There are numerous hats, most of which have been made under his hand. Milliner hands. It requires precision, and skilled fingers, and delicate palms.

Felix had never considered himself delicate, but his hands perhaps were. They were the only delicate thing about him. Delicate, and yet they’d broken his brother’s nose and crushed glass when he was told Glenn would be conscripted by the moon’s end.

In the end, he catches a bus ride. He’s the last on, and as such, his hand grips firmly to the rail as he leans out the bus door frame. The wind catches on his hair, disentangles it a bit from his bun, and lets strands dance in the spring breeze. It seems the entire town is out today, collected in the square and along the river bridges to welcome patrolling gunners and thundering tanks. Despite the collective excitement, Felix feels nothing but a sourness akin to curdled milk.

The entire reason he’d left is because of a singular, square piece of paper folded into his coat pocket. Glenn had not known, and neither had Rodrigue. But Felix needs the money, and despite how rudimentary the alleyways of this town were, work as a butler seemed better than anything else.

Before he can even reach his desired address though, there are two soldiers blocking his path. As much as Felix would have liked to believe he was alert at all times when it came to his surroundings, there’s hardly any warning at all before polished boots and a heavyset hand come colliding with the brick wall to his left.

“Look. Little kitten has lost its way.” The first guard is grotesque, with a crooked nose and an upper lip that barely shows. When he laughs, it doesn’t curl, and somehow seems to grow thinner.

“A pretty kitten, too. Want a walk back to the bar? We’ll fetch you a drink.” The second is leaner, a little taller, and a lot ganglier. He doesn’t look much older than Felix, if not the same age.

Except Felix isn’t a pretty damsel, and a moment later there’s a bottom lip curling and a hand that tightens into a fist. “I think not. I was on my way to see my brother. Now let me through before I clip both of you.”

There isn’t a need to. Doesn’t need to, because there’s a warm hand clasping on his shoulder, the smell of apricots and nectarines, and a silken voice that drips like honeysuckle. “Hello, sweetheart.” That same hand drifts further down, comes to rest against a forearm as if it’s as familiar and second nature to him as home. “Did you miss me?”

Felix is about to shove him off, or at the very least, protest openly. Until something peculiar happens: both guards are staring with a vengeance that seems inordian, and they glower at the man now languidly draped across Felix. “We’re busy here.” A hand reaches for the hilt of a gun.

“Are you, now?” The stranger leans forward, and Felix catches blond locks that burn like wildfire. “I say otherwise. It looked to me like you two were leaving. Isn’t that right, dearest?” There’s an index finger that points itself in the air then, almost nonchalant. And then, despite what Felix at first believes, he watches as the soldiers seem to magically stiffen. There’s the cracking of joints, a few croaked groans, and then a freckled wrist that twirls in the air. Immediately the soldiers are turning around, walking away as if being tugged by an invisible line.

There’s a laugh that fills the air, easygoing and mirthful and sounding like all things that are good and warm. “Ah. Now, where were you going? A fine man like you doesn’t need an escort, I believe. But I think it’s customary to offer when I see a pretty face such as yours.”

Felix is so shocked that all he does is flush crimson. “The audacity you have –”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I am being followed. I think it would be best to argue after.” Before Felix can say much else, he’s got an arm wrapped firmly around the mystery man’s. “Try to act normal, alright? Don’t go looking for another fight.”

There’s a loud swallow from Felix as they begin to walk. Their pace is far too casual, especially if what his new company is saying rings true. “I don’t go looking for _any_ fights,” he snaps defensively in reply. There’s a sound behind them, a tin can that’s being knocked over. Fe doesn’t look back. “And if you’re going to escort me, bring me to the weaponsmith.” It hadn’t been his initial destination, but it’ll have to do.

“Sounds lovely, sweetheart.” The taller man still isn’t looking at him, but his voice is syrupy sweet. A façade. “Sorry to tell you, but it seems you’re involved now. Pick up your pace, please.”

As if on cue, the sounds from behind are getting louder, and the alleyway to the main street becomes blocked. Except it’s not like anything Felix has seen before, and instead it’s a moving mass of black tar. It’s splitting then, morphs itself into multiple corporeal beings. It’s not anything that could be deemed pretty. “What the _hell_ are those?” Felix’s voice is rising, and their feet are picking up pace. The man beside him doesn’t respond, at first.

“Don’t worry too much about it. This way.” There’s a sharp turn, and Felix is being dragged down a separate alley. It’s not one he recognizes, but his escort seems to know this part of the town better than Fe does.

Except they’re blocked again. And this time, there isn’t an escape route. Felix feels his hands curl into fists, is about to suggest perhaps brawling their way out of this one when something peculiar happens.

The man jumps, and Felix goes with him.

“Now! Keep hold of me, alright? Neither of us want you to fall.” It’s not possible, and yet, it’s happening. They’re going up, and _up,_ and Felix can’t decide whether he’s in awe or in shock or something akin to complete terror.

He lets a cry be ripped from between parted lips. He has words he wants to say, and they’re there, on the tip of his tongue. But he’s rendered speechless, and instead all Felix does is curl his legs upwards.

There’s a merry laugh, mirthful and warm. “Put your legs down! You won’t fall. Not as long as I’ve got you.” There’s a wink, followed by a shit-eating grin that Felix wants to wipe clean off his face. But he does as he’s told. “Good! Now, just keep walking. We’ll arrive at your destination soon enough.”

It’s beautiful. They’re flying above the rooftops, treading the air as if it’s water. The people beneath them appear like ants, moving in unison with the day’s celebrations and festivities. There are the sounds of violins, and a woman singing. It feels like something out of a theatrical production.

“Look how good you are at this.” The man’s voice is next to his earlobe, whispering sweet words like rich honey. “You were born a natural.” The praise makes Fe’s lips quirk up, and suddenly his legs are kicking with a renewed vigor.

All too soon though, they’ve reached the upper balcony of a building situated near the weaponsmith. Loafers touch polished wood, and a warm hand greets him goodbye. “Thank you,” Fe murmurs curtly. He’s not really sure what _to_ say.

There’s another wink, one that sends him the colour of ruby. “Don’t mention it. Now, I’ll lead them off. But keep watch down there, alright? I know you’re an observant man. You’ll be fine.”

Felix nods. “Alright.”

The man smiles. “That’s my boy. Good.” And then, without warning, he jumps from the railing. When Felix rushes forward to look over the edge, there’s only the marketplace beneath.

Any trace of his companion seems to have vanished.

Glenn is, unsurprisingly, already talking to the weaponsmith. He’s got his hands on a newly brandished sword, thumbing at its grooves. Felix knew he’d be here. When he sees Felix, his eyes turn sharp.

“There you are.” Suddenly his brother’s walking forward, sword and scabbard all but forgotten. Glenn is shorter than their father, but still tall enough that his head goes above Felix’s. Fe had been envious of it as a child, but now Glenn uses it to gain a leverage. “Someone told me they’d seen you floating above the market square. What the hell happened?”

Felix sighs. “I see. That man was real.” He’d been hoping it’d been nothing more than a hallucination, but how could it be? His cheeks are still touched pink from the wind, and his hair has come loose around the edges. It certainly looks like he’s been up in the air.

There’s a pursing of thin lips, and cobalt eyes that stare downwards at him. “Do you care to explain?”

There are too many sets of eyes here, too many ears. Felix grabs the cuff of his brother’s shirt, tugs him closer. “Come. There is much to tell.”

“Sounds like a wizard.” Glenn stands adjacent to Felix, running a whetstone along the fine edges of a blade he’d picked up. “Are you so daft as to think otherwise?”

From where he sits, Felix knows that his brother cannot see his face. When it twists into something unreadable, edging on uncertainty, it goes virtually undetected. It had taken more out of him to explain than he’d initially thought, and now, sitting here outside the weaponry, Felix can’t tell if he regrets telling Glenn or not. “Perhaps.” The word comes out little more than that of a grunt. “But I have yet to see why he would help.”

When Glenn turns around and presses a hard stare into Felix’s skull, it sticks like glue. “You’ve always been like this. It’s clear he was after your heart. He would have eaten it if he were Sylvain, and if you were a little more foolish than already.”

Felix gives a smile tinged by bitterness. “I doubt so. I have little time for affairs of love. Let alone an insatiable wizard.”

Glenn’s face grows closer, looming over Felix from where he perches on a step. “Still, I _need_ you to be more careful.” Glenn’s face grows solemn. “You have to help father when I’m away. I don’t need you getting into fights or being whisked away by wizards. Even the Witch of the Waste has been reported lurking about.”

With an inaudible swallow, Felix turns away. He doesn’t want to think about the war. He doesn’t want to think about his brother leaving.

“Are you listening to me?” Glenn’s voice raises an octave. When he shifts, taking in the full scope of his brother’s face, he stills. “I don’t know why you’ve stuck around for so long, Fe. Even if the war hadn’t occurred. Is being a milliner what you plan on doing your entire life?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do _you_ want, Felix?”

What does he want. What does he want? It’s a question that’s been loaded and cocked like a gun to his temple. He isn’t sure how to respond. “I don’t know,” he repeats instead.

Glenn pulls away, eyes casting downwards. It’s such a simple action, but Felix can’t help but feel as if he’s done something wrong. “When I get home,” Glenn says, “we’ll find you somewhere better. I don’t like the way the city’s treated you.”

“What do you mean?”

A hand reaches for stray bangs. The wind stirs it. “Your hair. It’s grown dull. Like mother’s once looked.”

But what will become of the millinery? The thought sits on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Felix says nothing.

He takes the commute home.

When the Witch of the Waste comes for Felix Hugo Fraldarius, he does not know it. By the time he’s arrived home to the Fraldarius hat shop, the stars have begun their dance, and the streets are barren. He inserts the shop key, twists it, locks the door and lights a lamp. The flickering flame casts shadows that beckon along the walls.

“What a pathetic place this is.” When the voice from behind speaks, it is without the creaking of joints, and without the telltale squeak of a floorboard. Instead all that chimes are the wind bells strung above, twirling in the cool breeze brought in from the spring air.

Felix turns, tries to suppress the mixture of surprise and annoyance at the woman’s words. She’s only an inch smaller than him, but by the way her heels now click and the way the cloak behind her sashays, she might as well be taller. Her brunette hair falls in a bob above her shoulders, and brown eyes give little away. “We’re closed.”

The customer ignores him. “Pathetic hats. Pathetic skills. But you know what I think?” When she leans closer, the intoxicating scent of rose petals hits him. She smells of rot and decay underneath. “I think you’re the most pathetic thing here.”

Felix straightens, feels the way his hands turn into fists at his sides and he wills them to keep a hold on the lapels of his coat. “Get out. I locked the door. I don’t know how you got in but I will not tolerate your presence in my store.”

She smiles. “Oh, dear boy.” A head cocks. “Don’t you know better than to argue with the Witch of the Waste?”

His blood runs impossibly cold at the same time the doors swing open once more. The viscous shapes from before are back, and despite what Felix tries to suppress, the image of auburn fixates itself in his mind. “What? The Witch of the Waste –”

Felix isn’t sure what to do. It seldom happens that he’s left at an impasse. A decade’s worth of anguish makes that clear enough. So when the witch fixes herself upon him, passes through him like a phantom found in the foundations of accursed plays, Felix chokes back a groan and hunches over.

He feels cold. Numb.

“It would do you well to know that there’s little you can do. That spell can’t be spoken of out loud.” The woman laughs, loud and reverberating from the depths of her diaphragm. “Would you tell Sylvain that I stopped by? Please, do give him my regards.”

The door shuts, and Felix is left alone once more. He reaches for his coat, which had been blown off in the process.

Except.

“Oh,” he croaks. The hand in front of him isn’t his, can’t possibly be his, and yet the way it quivers and shakes with an abject horror makes him realize that it truly is. Placing a palm to the side of his face, Felix lets crooked joints explore the wrinkled crevices that have formed upon once smooth skin.

It can’t possibly be him. But it is, and Felix knows it is, when he makes his way over to the shop’s mirror and stares at the man featured in the reflection. His eyes are the same burning amber they’ve always been, flecked with specks of honey, but the shape of his face sags. Cheekbones that were once high have fallen, and in his old age his face has softened. The hair he’d once prided himself on has turned to a streaked silver.

He tries not to panic.

“This isn’t real life.” It’s what Felix tells himself, but even then, as he paces with the trench coat still in hand, he knows it’s a false truth. It is real life, and he knows it is when the foreigner in front of him appears in the mirror once again. “Perhaps,” Felix croaks in a voice that no longer sounds like silk, “I will sleep. There’s no possible way I’ve aged this fast. When I awake, father will be home, and so will Glenn. It’ll be the same as it’s always been.”

Making his way to the back of the shop, he opens the door and steps into the house that is connected. The stairs seem more troublesome than they ever had before. Long legs ache by the time Felix reaches his bedroom.

He blows out the remaining lamp, drapes his coat across the bed frame, and falls into a restless sleep.

“Felix!” The voice that greets him the next morning is sharp, and stern, and too brash to belong to even Glenn. It’s Rodrigue, as it often is, and Felix can’t help but shy away when a firm knock sounds at the door.

He bundles the blankets closer around him. “I’m sick.” His voice doesn’t sound right. His father is going to realize something is off. Felix knows it.

But instead, Rodrigue seems taken aback. “Sothis, you sound a mess.” The knocking lets up. “What were you doing to catch such a frightful illness?”

He’s been awake long enough this morning to know that nothing has changed. He knew it wouldn’t, and yet, there’s a childlike part of his heart that crumbles at the notion that he’s stuck like this. “It simply came on, father. As colds usually do.” Felix forces venom into his words, carefully curated as it always is. It doesn’t seem to have the same impact as usual. “Don’t come in. I’ve decided to stay in bed. Tomorrow I’ll resume with my hats.”

Feet shift from outside the door. “Alright,” and then, “I’ll have Glenn tend to the shop. I have business to attend to.”

Rodrigue leaves, and Felix is left alone once again. But he doesn’t mind it, even in his newfound old age. The silence had always been preferable, and people were not often quick to pick up on the sharp retorts Felix was used to reflecting. “These clothes don’t suit a man like me.” It’s the first thing he says upon exiting his bed, standing in front of the little dress mirror. There’s a pot of water that he dips his hands into, smoothing palms over his face and wetting skin. “But I’ve yet to lose my good shape. I’m sure that will provide useful.” Better than the other folks who also had one foot in the grave at this age.

He can’t stay here though, can he? Not if he wants to fix this. The Waste lays to the west, past the mountains of Faerghus. It’s the only choice he really has at this point. Begging for a cure on grovelling knees is more ideal than spending the rest of a dwindling life with a grave in sight.

And despite loathing the idea, his mind keeps coming back to one thought in particular: Sylvain. Apricots and nectarines, blond hair that tickles a neck and lips that play host to a perfect cupid’s bow.

Grabbing his coat and buttoning it up firmly, Felix steps out of his room and creeps down the stairs. His joints feel odd, out of place and foreign. When they crack, he grunts, and winces when an arm can barely raise the length it needs to in order to gather food. Wrapping what he can – bread, swiss cheese – into a small bag, Felix exits the house and leaves.

He tells himself he’ll be back soon enough. He will, once Sylvain lifts this curse for him. He can’t miss Glenn’s departure. Felix tries to tell himself that the real reason is because he cannot leave hats unfinished. It’s little more than an excuse.

The trek into the heart of the slums seems far longer than it once did. Had it always been like this? Felix can’t recall. It feels like a millennium since he’d once been spry.

What he needs is a ride there. It seems that’s what he’s going to get, too.

“Are you alright?” A boy calls to him from above. He’s helping an older man pull hay, two drafts tacked in front to roll the cart. He looks younger than Felix by a couple years – or really, a few decades at this point – and yet despite his youthful age his hair is silver. It dances in the sun’s rays.

“I need a ride.” Even now in his ripening age, his bluntness remains. Felix supposes some things never change. “Are you travelling to the mountains?”

The boy looks to the older man beside him. “To the valley. That’s where our farm is. This hay is for the rest of our horses.” A smile lights up freckled cheeks. “Lonato and I can give you a lift. I hope you’re alright with sitting in the back with the hay. I’m afraid it’s not very suitable for an elder, but there’s no room up front.”

Before Felix can stop himself, he snaps back haughtily. “I’m not an elder!” He realizes only a moment too late how ridiculous the statement must seem. “Apologies. The back will be fine.”

The ride is long. An hour in and Felix’s rump begins to ache, and his calves burn from propping himself so neatly against the hay. Two hours in and he’s forgotten what the hay feels like against his skin. The pinpricks seem nonexistent.

“Are you sure you can make it into the mountains yourself?” Lonato’s gruff voice breaks the silence, only interrupted by the creaking of wooden wheels.

The cart stops. Felix unloads himself. “I’m quite capable of walking. I know what I’m doing.”

It seems both boy and man are doubtful of Felix’s words. But they say little regardless, instead looking away. “Just be careful, sir. Those mountains lead to the Waste.”

Felix straightens his posture, fixing the coat around himself tighter. “I know.”

Lonato dips his head. “Ashe and I wish you safe travels.”

The Waste, long ago, had been the border between Sreng and northernmost Faerghus. In a series of events that ended with the stirrings of war, the place had become deserted. Winter birds that once roamed the skies no longer sing, and trees have wilted away to husks of their former selves. It was a world that had been virtually erased from the Kingdom entirely, and yet, it seems to cling to the hope of new creation. It was little wonder that the witch had chosen it as her playing grounds.

It’s cold up here, even for Faerghan standards. By now Felix has already made his way from the rickety barn and up the winding path of the first mountain. Grass turns to snow, and clear skies turn to clouds that surround the town once beneath Felix. Before long he’s draped across a rock, back pressed against solid stone and a groan being loosened from between parted lips. “Is this what it’s like?” he says out loud to the air. “To be old? I can fully say that I hate it.”

The only response he gets back is the whistling of passing wind. It sounds like the Goddess laughing at him from high above. He spits on the ground to show his spite. “Sothis knows that I could use help. It does little to gawk.”

There’s not much in the mountains. With little oxygen and not much in the ways of bountiful colour, the slanting grey cliffs of passing rock are what keep Felix company. And he’s fine with it, truly, even letting his neck crane to catch the landscape above when a foot catches on a limb and he falls. The packed snow underneath does little to help pillow his joints, and Felix groans as old bones make impact with solid ground.

“What the hell?” he snaps to the passing wind. Turning to look at his feet, still splayed out in the white snow, he finds a stick. It’s not so much that sticks are uncommon – quite the contrary, as it is with most places in the world – yet to find one so far up _here_ is a sight indeed.

Felix gives it a kick. It’s supposed to be nothing more than a quick retaliation for the brief pain caused prior. But something shifts, snow falls on a slant, and the bright hue of a furred cape comes into view. “Oh.” That hadn’t been what he’d expected. Shifting on all fours, ignoring the way palms burn against frozen ground, Felix tugs at the stick. When it refuses to give way, Felix grunts from the back of his throat, curls hands tightly and _pulls._

The stick gives way, rises from the pile of snow and stands on end as if it’s a person. Except it’s not a stick, not truly one at all, and instead rests the round head of a turnip and a scarecrow that’s stuffed from straw.

“You’re a scarecrow!” Felix snaps ludicrously, eyes widening as he takes in the eyepatch sitting neatly on the side of its head. The cape billows from behind, sprouting the kingdom’s crest, and where limbs should be are instead flapping trousers. “That’s impossible. A scarecrow cannot stand that straight nor that tall.”

Felix doesn’t know why he asks. It’s not as if the object can talk. But it sways in the wind regardless, bows itself in a fashion akin to silent thanks, and stares as if it can see into Felix’s soul. The look that was once annoyance falls away to understanding. “You’re cursed too, aren’t you?” Felix’s voice gives away the bittersweet defeat laced beneath.

The scarecrow only moves in time with the wind.

“I should go now,” Felix murmurs. It gets swallowed by the frigid winds. “Don’t stay up here. Get moving.” The words are meant half for himself, too. Without a second glance Felix begins to hobble away. Clearing his throat with a quiet grunt, he fastens the coat tighter around himself and tucks hands into pockets. Clearly, he’d underthought this entire excursion.

Against his wishes though, the scarecrow does not leave. It does not leave his side, even. Felix only notices the sound of something hopping through the snow when his own steps falter, and with widening eyes he looks back. “I said go _away!_ I don’t need anymore curses following me. I’ve already got my hands full as it is.”

Trousers flap in the wind. The scarecrow makes no sound.

“Are you not going to leave? Are you going to stay here?” Felix’s tone leaves harsh, strained and raw. “Make yourself useful then. Can you run along and find me shelter? It’s awful cold out here. I’d like to rest for the night.”

Surprisingly, the turnip head complies. With a little hop it bounces past Felix, further up the mountainside. Its cape still billows in the wind, a rich sea of navy against a pale underscore. It makes for a sight that burns its way into Felix’s mind and finds home there. Felix smiles. Having the smarts to trick a scarecrow is better than having none.

Felix isn’t sure how long he’s been walking. What he does know is this: Kingdom battleships still fly above him, and the winds now have a bite to them that leave him shivering into his clothes. Even by Faerghan standards the snow is packed thick, and Felix’s legs ache with a burning ferocity that he’s unused to.

It also happens, at some point, that he smells the beginnings of a fire. He’s heard of those who live in the mountains, stray cottages and campsites that offer a solitary life of confinement. It’s not a life Felix himself would ever dream of, but if it means shelter and a warm body of fire, it sounds like a fresh oasis.

“So. There really are people up here.” His voice carries dubiously across the open air as he begins his walk once more. Coming around the curve of a mountainside, Felix only stops when he hears the creaking of pipes and something akin to a metallic clatter.

The scarecrow comes into view once more. Along with it, the hulking mass of a moving accordion held together by forged parts. “You,” he hisses to the turnip head. “Idiot! This isn’t what I meant when I asked for shelter.” With a look of abject horror, Felix turns his sights upwards to gaze into the open mouth of the mechanical beast. “You brought me Sylvain’s castle!” This isn’t what he wanted. From this close, Felix realizes the thing doesn’t even truly resemble a castle. It’s rustic, and crowded, and it moves on shaky legs that look as if they’ll give away any moment.

Felix doesn’t know why he expects the castle to stop. But it doesn’t, keeps on moving, and when the back door makes itself clear to Fe it’s already walking further down the mountain. “Wait!” Felix hears himself call, but he feels as if he’s out of his own body when he begins to chase it. The scarecrow beside him hops frantically, and Felix makes himself ignore it in favour of reaching out to grab the railing. “What the hell are you doing? Are you going to let me into this slum or not?”

With a sharp tug that causes Felix to cry out, the castle scoops him up and against the wooden door. In the process his food topples to the ground, and instead of stopping, the turnip head continues to hop along. Felix doesn’t really care. The scarecrow may be helpful, but all he’s really focused on now is the way the door swings open and allows him to tumble forth.

“Thank you,” he begrudgingly says, “for finding shelter. I doubt Sylvain will remember me. I am but an old man now.” Staring solemnly at the turnip head, Felix offers the ghost of a smile before closing the door behind him tight. Felix can’t seem to tell if the way his chest now aches is from the truth of his own words or not.

In truth, Felix is used to poor house upkeep. It comes with living in the poorer parts of his town, and despite his cleanliness with the hat shop and his family’s home, outside paints a different story. It’s also why, as he creeps up the stairs, his scowl is minimal. “What a shitfest this place is. And people have the nerve to call this a castle?”

The place is a mess. It’s tidy, by normal standards, and every scroll and book have a place where they belong. But it feels neglected, like a child left in the cold or a dog that’s been leashed to a stray barrel. It’s dusty, unloved, and the little fireplace in the centre of the room has become nearly drowned out by ash.

There’s already a wooden chair set neatly by the fireplace, as if waiting for someone to fill it. Making his way over, Felix sits down and stares into the dying embers. “Whoever is looking after you has done a poor job,” he murmurs. Grabbing a log from the pile of wood that’s been stacked neatly, Felix feeds it to the fire.

A gentle smile makes its way forth. “There we go.”

The flames flicker. Felix sits.

“I don’t envy you. That’s a pretty bad curse you’ve been afflicted with.”

Becoming ramrod straight against the wooden chair, Felix’s eyes focus on the fire in front of him. “What?” He says out loud, brows drawing together. “Fire can’t talk. I must be dreaming.”

The fire growls, loud and offended. “You’re not dreaming! Of course I can talk.” Two eyes stare back at Felix with equal intensity. “Good luck removing that curse.”

“How would you know I’m cursed?”

“It’s written all over your face.”

Felix frowns. Turning his eyes downcast, he noses further into the collar of his jacket. “Rude to say such things to an old man. And who would you be?”

“Ingrid! I’m a fire demon!” She sounds almost taken aback by how seemingly unaware Felix is.

“You don’t look like much of a demon to me. I could snuff you out in an instant.”

Immediately the little fire demon recoils. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m the one who moves this entire castle.” Ingrid’s eyes narrow. “That curse of yours. The worst part about it is that you can’t even speak about it, can you?”

Felix presses his lips into a thin line, disapproval clear as day upon his face.

“I can help you. You figure out what’s keeping me tethered to Sylvain’s castle, and I’ll break that curse of yours.” Ingrid sounds so sure of herself that it causes Felix to laugh, loud even in his old age.

“I don’t bargain with demons.” Clicking his tongue, Felix once again curls against the chair, all prior tenseness gone. “So how about you be a good fire, and keep me warm.”

Ingrid’s mouth drops open, and suddenly the bundle of flames begins to shake. “Please, sir. Sylvain makes me do all the work around here. If you break the connection holding me here, I _will_ lift yours.”

A grunt is all Ingrid ends up being given. “Whatever you say, little demon.”

Felix falls asleep to the sounds of Ingrid’s complaints.

When day breaks and the sun filters through dusted windows, Felix finds himself still in Sylvain’s castle. The fire crackles in front of him, and he almost truly does believe he’d hallucinated the entire thing until Ingrid stirs once more.

“You’re finally up.” The demon frowns up at Felix contemptuously. “You better tidy yourself. Lysithea will be awake soon.”

Still groggy from a night’s worth of sleep, Felix grunts and leans closer. “Who?”

If Ingrid had planned on saying anything, she doesn’t have the time to. Instead a brash knock at the door interrupts their brief conversation, and a voice that yells “Fhirdiad!” comes from the other side.

Peering at the wooden door, Felix raises a brow. Before he can even begin to ponder over answering it or not, there’s the sound of light footsteps and the scent of lavender. A young girl moves to stand beside him. “Who are you?” she snaps, violet eyes turned downwards in a vision of scorn. “No matter. Stay here for a second, will you?”

Felix is so surprised at the child’s entrance that he says nothing. He nods once in compliance.

This must be Lysithea. Or, he at least hopes it is. Sylvain’s castle is already full of so many strange wonders and beings that Felix wouldn’t be surprised if there were even more secrets waiting to be discovered. The girl pulls a hooded cloak from a rickety coat stand, tosses it over her shoulders and fixes the new plume of hair sitting atop her head. It’s a platinum blond, similar to what Sylvain’s had been.

“Make way!” she cries, and then steps down the short flight of stairs, twists a dial on the door until the colour changes to blue, and opens it. Immediately a soldier stands before her, clad in uniform and polished boots. Immediately Felix’s blood runs cold at the sight. He tries not to think about Glenn.

“Is Sylvain Gautier home?” The young man doesn’t look much older than Glenn. He sounds a little like him, too. Felix has to turn away before his entire presence curdles into something a little more sour.

Thankfully, the girl is there to answer. She gives a shake of her head. “No. I am the one who answers for him. Give whatever you have to me, and I shall pass it on to him.” Goddess, she’s laying it on thick, isn’t she? The child doesn’t even sound like the fully grown man she’s pretending to be.

The soldier hands her the wax sealed letter regardless. “It’s from His Majesty, King Lambert. About the missing Prince Dimitri. He wishes for Sylvain to attend the palace at his soonest measure.”

Supposed Lysithea smiles. “I will let him know. Have a good day.” The door closes. The minutes tick by, and there are several more stops – including another invitation that’s handed all the way from Derdriu – before finally she takes off whatever awful disguise it is she’s wearing.

“So. Who would you be?”

It takes Felix a minute to realize it’s he who she’s talking to. “Felix.” He eyes the fire beside him. “Ingrid let me in.”

The demon cries out. “I did not!” Immediately Ingrid blows out a puff of smoke, only earning a devious smirk from Felix in return. “He simply showed up and fell asleep in that chair. I already told him to keep a watch out.”

Felix grunts. He really is thinking about smothering that fire. “And? Who are you?”

“Lysithea. I’m Sylvain’s apprentice.”

“You need a better costume.”

That’s what makes her tick. In a childish explosion of words, Lysithea’s face contorts into a perfect example of fury. “It’s not a costume! It’s part of my magic trick! Sylvain thinks I’ve done a great job.”

Felix chuckles. “He’s just being nice.”

Lysithea says nothing, but she watches. Watches as Felix stands up, walks down the cement steps and places a hand to the doorknob. When he turns it, opening the door, he’s met with the winding canals of Derdriu. It’s impressive, to say the least, and the salty smell of the ocean’s waves can be tasted in the air.

“Stop touching things you don’t know enough about!” Felix ignores Lysithea’s warning, instead twists the doorknob again with a growing amusement. When he opens the doorway this time, he’s met once more with the sprawling buildings of Fhirdiad. Polished marble and cobblestone streets, clear skies and a wondrous overarching palace.

Felix turns back to look at the girl. “Where does the black one lead?” He points to the little dial. From what he recalls, blue is Fhirdiad, red is Derdriu, and green is the Wastes. The black one remains untouched.

“We don’t touch that one. Only Sylvain comes in and out of there.”

The spine-chilling sobriety of her voice makes Felix drop the dial.

“Thank you. Anyways, I’m going to have my breakfast now.” Her white hair sashays behind her as she walks up to one of the cabinets. A moment later and Lysithea is pulling out a block of cheese and a stale loaf of bread.

That can’t be a nice breakfast, now can it? More out of curiosity than anything else, Felix peers forward and eyes up the rest of the food. “Why are you taking that? You have much nicer food here. Including fresh eggs.”

Lysithea rolls her eyes as if whatever Felix is missing is the most obvious thing in the world. “Sylvain isn’t here.”

“And what about it?” Felix truly can’t see the problem.

“Ingrid won’t obey anyone except Sylvain.”

Felix ignores the scope of her words in favour for grabbing a rather large frying pan. “I can make her cook for us. Watch.”

Ingrid’s defiance is more than expected. “No, you can’t! I won’t cook for you.”

Humming a mindless tune to himself, Felix greases the pan and raises it, poised menacingly in the air. “Now. Do as I say, and I won’t tell Sylvain about our little _promise_.” When Felix smiles, it’s through a toothy grin. “Perhaps I could snuff you out instead.”

Immediately Ingrid lets out an estranged cry. “You wouldn’t do that to me! You can’t, anyways! Look at me. I could burn you alive if I wanted to.”

A quiet tut. “Behave for me.” A moment later Felix is placing the pan neatly atop a struggling Ingrid. It takes a moment or two, but the demon stills, and before long orange flames die down to a pleasant sizzle. “That’s it. Good demon.”

“You actually did it!” Cries Lysithea from behind. “I wonder what Sylvain is going to say. Can you believe that? You’re the only other person I’ve ever seen tame her.”

Neither have to wait long. At first, Felix barely hears the sound of the dial clicking. He’s too busy frying the strips of bacon set in front of him to care.

It turns out that Lysithea is the one to first notice. When the colour shifts from a pleasant blue to the foreboding black he’d been forbidden to touch, the girl raises her head from the confinement of the breakfast nook. “Sylvain! You’re home! I have letters for you, you’ve been called to the palace! Directly from King Lambert himself!”

Felix doesn’t mean to take his eyes off the hearth. But he does regardless, side-eyeing the looming figure that trudges up the steps. It’s clear Sylvain isn’t listening to Lysithea, or if he is, he makes no notion of it. Instead his head hangs low, like a scolded babe, and greasy locks frame a troubled face.

That is, until Sylvain himself spots Felix. It’s impossible for the wizard to remember who he is, especially in this accursed state, and when Sylvain gives a fraction of a smile Felix tells himself that it’s imagined. “Ingrid,” coos Sylvain. “You’re being such a good girl. You don’t let just anyone cook over you.”

“I didn’t mean to let him! He bullied me into it!” Ingrid frowns from beneath the pan, looking up pleadingly at Sylvain. It’s clear the little demon doesn’t mind it too much though.

Ignoring Ingrid’s whines, Sylvain turns to look at Felix. Bangs fall away to reveal soft eyes, and Felix can’t help but wonder if that little tug inside his chest is from a stare that seems more familiar than it first did. “And who would you be?”

Oh. That’s right. Who is he, exactly? Sylvain can’t possibly know that he’s the same man from before. Which makes lying a little easier on the tongue. “I’m Sir Felix. Your new butler. I just started work today, I –”

“Move over. Let me do this, okay?” Without warning Sylvain is stepping closer, until his shoulder is pressed against Felix. The overwhelming scent of both apricots and something akin to gunpowder fill Fe’s senses, and immediately he’s blushing scarlet. “You need to give me the pan, you know. Both of us can’t hold it.” With a little wink and a smile that seems more genuine than the previous, Sylvain wraps a gentle hand around Felix’s.

It’s strange, the way his palms feel somehow familiar and yet foreign all on their own. They’re broad, and calloused, but when Sylvain’s fingers trace Felix’s it feels a little like home. “Of course,” Felix says hastily, jumping away from the touch as if he’s been scalded. Sylvain simply looks in the opposite direction.

“Pass me half a dozen more eggs, Felix.” Sylvain’s eyes are focused upon the sizzling pan in front of him, but it’s clear he’s in a noticeably better mood with each cracked shell he tosses it to Ingrid. The ball of flames greedily laps each one up, crunching with a renewed vigor. Fe can’t help but smile at the sight.

“Come on, sir! Come eat with Sylvain and me!” Lysithea’s voice is loud and boisterous in the little room, but retains its juvenescence. It’s nice, to see someone so obliviously joyful compared to both him and Sylvain.

Following after his newfound company, Felix winces as the wizard a little less than gracefully dusts off the table. A plume of dust rises into the air, and Fe sneezes into his arm. Goddess, it’s a mess in here. “Felix. Would you like some tea? For all the work you’ve done this morning.” With a timid upturn of his lips, Sylvain procures a chipped mug and pours from a heated kettle. Felix hadn’t even realized he’d put water on to boil.

“Oh,” he says after a long moment of silence, “thank you.”

“Of course. Now, who hired you?” Sylvain’s question appears from thin air, and immediately Felix is straightening up in his little wooden chair again.

Looking around the room, his eyes settle on Ingrid. “Ingrid did! She said this place needed some tidying.” Looking at the rafters above, Felix grimaces. “She was right.”

For the first time that morning, Sylvain laughs. A true, hearty one that lights up the room and lets glowing embers settle inside Felix. “Ingrid, you’ve found someone who I think really will set this place right.” An indiscernible glint wavers in the very corners of his gaze. “It’s lovely to meet you, Felix.”

“Look at you three, having a conversation and eating without me. How rude! I didn’t even get payment for letting you cook over me.” Ingrid’s voice interrupts brashly, and when both Felix and Sylvain look from her to each other, they share a smirk.

“I’ll toss you more eggshells next time, Ingrid.” Cutting into his food, Sylvain feeds himself a greasy morsel of bacon before peering at Felix’s coat. “Say, Felix. Can you check your pocket for me? I believe you have something.”

Swallowing back a little noise of surprise, Fe turns to eye his coat, now draped neatly across the back of his chair. “I don’t have anything in my pocket though.” He finds his hand moving mechanically regardless, fingertips dipping into the woolen side until, miraculously, they touch folded paper.

When Felix hands it over, Sylvain has little more than a split second before the little crimson slip bursts into a shower of embers.

“Burn marks,” Lysithea says, at the same time that Sylvain muses, “ancient sorcery.”

Sylvain’s hand hovers over the scripture.

_You which have swallowed a falling star_

_Soon will play out your troubles of the heart_

If Sylvain is at all perturbed by the scripture, he says nothing. Instead the wizard fixes a complacent smile upon his face, and with a look of concentration that gives away his feigned ease, places a bare palm to the burning flames. The only gesture that might show discomfort is when sweat beads at a brow.

“That was from the Witch of the Waste,” Lysithea remarks hesitantly. “Wasn’t it?”

Sylvain smiles. It doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. Now, please excuse me.” He cradles a hand to his chest. Felix notices that it’s burnt. “Ingrid. Please prepare water for my bath. And while you’re at it, begin moving the castle southwest.”

Ingrid begins to protest, but Sylvain has already vanished upstairs.

“Felix.” Lysithea’s voice, dubious and full of contempt, reaches his ears a moment later. “Are you working for her? The Witch of the Waste?”

Working for her. Working for  _ her? _ A swell of anger rises in Felix’s chest at the mere assumption, and before he can stop himself brows are drawing together. “Of course I’m not working for her,” he snarls vehemently, “she’s the one who –  _ ah _ – who –” Immediately Felix’s mouth shuts, and despite trying his hardest to speak, refuses. With a startled cry he stands up, slamming fists against the wooden table. “If I find that woman again, that’s it for her!”

Lysithea must believe him, because she quiets down after that.

If there’s one thing Felix has learned rather quickly about living in Sylvain’s castle, it’s that this is a lawless wasteland when it comes to neatness. He spends most of the day cleaning – more out of a sense of unrest than it is about being a butler – and by the end of his pillaging tirade he’s left with only Ingrid.

“Felix,” she coughs. “Please help me.” All the dusting and burning of wood has left a sea of ash across the hearth, and now the little demon clings to the final chippings of a forgotten log.

From where he stands, Felix raises a brow ludicrously. “Quit whining. You’ll be fine. Let me clean the fireplace out.” Scooping her up and draping the wood across a tin mug, Felix gets to brushing away any debris that he can manage on reaching.

Ingrid isn’t giving up though. “Please, Felix. I’m going to fall.” Little hands scramble for purchase on the crumbling log, and Fe does nothing except roll his eyes.

“I said give me a second. I’ll be right with –”

Ingrid falls, and before she can hit the bottom a gentle hand scoops her into a palm. Lips caress the air around Ingrid, now little more than a faint blue, and blow until flames come back to life. Something inside the demon begins to beat rhythmically in time with an undetectable chorus.

Felix stands to the side, unsure as to what to say.

“Please, I ask that you be kinder to my friend.” When Sylvain looks to Felix with a careful smile, Fe has to stifle a gasp.

Sylvain has cut his hair, bangs no longer blocking almond eyes from the rest of the world. There’s a faint sheen to his locks, one that no longer hints of grease and oil, but of health and youth. Already he looks kinder, tidier, and far happier.

If he catches Felix staring at him, he says nothing. Instead Sylvain places Ingrid delicately back into a freshly stocked hearth. “I’m going back out. Lysithea, make sure Felix doesn’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.” Though Sylvain gifts Fe with a careless wink, it seems a little superficial. Felix can’t help but feel a little more alone when the dial turns black, the door opens, and Sylvain is gone once again.

It doesn’t matter. There’s more cleaning to be done.

“What did you do  _ now _ ?” Comes the accusatory whine of Lysithea, high and nagging in Fe’s ear.

“He almost killed me, is what he did!” Ingrid cries out before Felix can even begin to explain. It does little more than fuel on his annoyance tenfold. “If you kill me, Sylvain dies. I hope you know that.”

What a load of rubbish. Felix makes sures his disbelief can be read clear as day. “Shut up. You’re fine, aren’t you?”

With that, he gets back to work.

Upstairs is even worse than downstairs. It’s still as tidy as it always seems in here, meticulously thought out and laid accordingly like the plans of a blueprint. The only difference is the dust hangs thicker, the cobwebs stickier, and the hallway more suffocating. It reflects more along the lines of a prison ward than a true home.

It feels mistreated, and Felix can’t help but wonder if he isn’t the only one who’s been left isolated.

The rest of the afternoon is spent cleaning, and Felix is about to rest when the rattling of a window catches his attention. With the help of Lysithea he moves out onto the porch, still perched high above the mountain valley, and stares at the stick ensnared in a crevice.

“It’s a stick,” points out Lysithea blatantly, “what is it doing?”

There’s a quiet sigh from Felix, one that does little to hide his exasperation. “Come and help me pull it out.”

They tug once, twice, and on the third time the scarecrow comes loose. Felix isn’t surprised by the familiar eyepatch, nor the cape that still lays across its stuffed shoulders. The scarecrow gives a little bounce in what Fe assumes is a greeting.

“A scarecrow!” gasps Lysithea, eyes widening as she takes in the looming figure above. He looks virtually the same, no less and no more stuffed than before.

“Yeah. He’s been following me around like a lost dog.” Jutting his bottom lip out in what appears to be the beginnings of a pout, Felix sighs to himself. “Hello again.”

The scarecrow hops onto a higher ledge, staring down at both him and Lysithea. The girl giggles. “I like him. He can stay.”

And with that, her word becomes law.

Somewhere along the way, Felix learns what it means to find peace, and he thinks that perhaps not all things supernatural are vile and cruel in this world. The child who plays hand-in-hand with a cloaked scarecrow proves as such. And maybe, just maybe, he feels the beginnings of what a true family is like.

If Felix had chosen to stay awake longer that night, he might have witnessed Sylvain come home. He might have noticed crimson feathers, and the smell of ash and a tongue so weighed down by the blood of others that it refused to wax poetic.

He might have witnessed the way joints creaked and soft down turned back into clothing. And if Felix were awake, he would have heard Ingrid’s gentle coo and the sound of, “you look horrible.” But instead of answering, Sylvain says nothing. “You can’t keep fighting. One of these days you won’t turn back into a human.”

If Felix knew Sylvain any better, he might have realized such a sentence would strike terror into the centre of the wizard’s crumbling chest. There was no heart for such words to squeeze. Instead lay an empty chasm, and where hope should be found, there was none.

“This war,” Sylvain rasps into the air, “is never-ending. They’ve bombed from the very southern border of where Adrestia touches Faerghus, all the way to the Wastes.”

Ingrid stays quiet for a brief moment, instead letting the crackle of flames fill the silence. “I don’t know why you humans are so hung on destroying one another,” the little demon finally says. “It is an age-old question I have been unable to solve.”

Sylvain smiles, but when he does, it does not carry with it any warmth. “I was attacked by my own kind today. Wizards that sided with the Emperor. You could barely recognize that they were once human.”

“How could you tell?”

“Because,” Sylvain whispers, “they still cried when they died.”

There’s nothing else to say. Standing up, Sylvain casts eyes downwards and walks away from Ingrid. “Ingrid. Please prepare my bath once again.”

If Ingrid protests, Sylvain does not pay attention.

Instead, his attentions slip away to finger at the velvet curtains that reside in the very corners of the house. They’re old, and a little frayed like everything in this castle, but they still retain a sense of security.

Felix, as he does with all of the night’s events, misses when Sylvain pulls them aside to stare down at him. He misses, too, when roaming eyes pick up not a man that is old, but one that has barely passed the cusp of twenty.

While Felix dreams of nothing, Sylvain lays awake and thinks of raven locks and a world on fire.

When morning comes and Felix is awoken by the sounds of a bathtub starting, the spry youth of last night has been exchanged once more for old age and weakened bones. Crawling out of the bunker and parting the curtains, Felix finds Ingrid already up. He’s not even really sure if demons sleep in the first place.

He busies his morning with taking Lysithea out to the marketplace. She holds his hand the entire time, and if he’s being honest, it’s more than a little endearing. “We’re finding fresh ingredients for Sylvain,” he tells her. When she asks him why, Felix only smiles. “Because he deserves it.”

In the end, he only manages to get half his basket full. War ships down by the water’s edge give way to underwater siege, and despite Lysithea’s insistence on getting closer, Felix refuses. There’s a fresh terror in his mouth, one that tastes of blood and dirt and a body that’s been laid to rest.

It’s too much of a grim reminder.

By the time Felix arrives home, it’s to the sound of Sylvain shouting from the bathroom. There’s a loud thump – has he fallen? – and then a door that creaks open. Feet pound against wooden stairs, and Sylvain appears in little more than a loose towel. It threatens to fall from his hips at any moment. “Felix!” He sobs, stepping down from the rafters to showcase his head. “What did you  _ do? _ ”

The only difference Felix can really see is that once blond hair has turned auburn. It’s a startling red, like cranberries on wreaths or cherry wine against lips. “I organized the bathroom products. They were everywhere.”

Sylvain yells sharply, and Felix can’t help but grimace when the wizard steps closer. “You ruined my potions! Don’t you see? Look at my  _ hair! _ ” Fingers manhandle wet locks, threatening to tear them from his own scalp. “I told you not to get carried away. I  _ told  _ you!”

“It doesn’t look so bad, Syl –”

“I looked disgusting, Felix!” Sylvain’s voice is harsh and intolerable, cutting through soft words and choking them into submission. Sitting pitifully on the wooden chair, Sylvain hangs his head between bare legs. Felix tries not to watch as the towel slips lower.

“Now, Sylvain. Can we not dye your hair back? Truly, it doesn’t look so bad like this.”

There’s a moment of silence. And then, as if the house has a mind of its own, the castle contorts. There’s the creaking of walls and the snapping of rafters, shadows that contort until they drift of their own accord. It’s terrifying, and dark, and Felix can’t help himself when he steps back in a newfound wave of hesitancy.

“He’s calling the spirits. I’ve only seen him do this once before, when he was dumped.” Lysithea's voice quavers from behind Felix, and he realizes the girl is holding on tightly to the seams of his trousers. The action invokes a spark of unadulterated anger, directed entirely at Sylvain.

“There isn’t a point in living if I can’t be handsome. There’s no charm that comes with looking foul, is there?” Sylvain’s body droops.

Felix feels hot tears. A fist tightens.

“I’ve had enough of your childish act, Sylvain. You think you’ve got it bad, have you? Living high in your little castle with the world beneath you?”

Sylvain doesn’t move. Somehow, that makes it worse. Felix feels something crack in his chest, like a dam that’s been holding on for far too long.

Hands clenching, Felix steps away from Lysithea and a limp Sylvain. “You’re pathetic. There’s never been a day in my life where I’ve thought of myself as anything other than standard! You think that matters when I can barely leave the house? You think that matters when I have a brother who may never come home?” At the mention of Glenn passing from his own lips, loneliness washes over Felix.

He’s never felt this stranded in his life.

The basket of food he’d picked for Sylvain sits untouched, unnoticed.

Hand closing around the doorknob, the little dial clicks into place, and Felix steps out into the mountain valley. When the door shuts, and the rain begins to pour upon him, Felix collapses in the mud and lets out a cry.

Nothing is there to hear his frustration. There is no Sylvain pursuing him, and there is no Lysithea bothering him. Only when the rain lifts from his soaked hair does he look up, and instead of the man he’d hoped to find, sits the scarecrow. In its wooden arms rests an opened umbrella.

“Thank you,” Felix whispers. “I am sorry for calling you an idiot. You are kind. Far kinder than I have ever given you credit for.” He doesn’t deserve the act of goodwill. It makes him taste bile in the back of his throat.

If Felix had thought to say more, there would have been no time. Because a minute later and Lysithea is stepping out into the rain, frantically tugging at his sleeve.

“Felix! You have to come help me; Sylvain is in trouble!” Her voice rings frantic, and for a split moment he feels a fresh swell of terror wash over him.

Sylvain isn’t in trouble though, and he isn’t anywhere close to dying (despite Lysithea’s thinking), and instead upon entering the castle once more, Felix rolls up his sleeves. “He’s not dead, Lysithea. And he’s not in trouble either.”

The little girl frowns up at him. “What’s wrong with him then?” She points a finger at the goop now seeping from Sylvain’s body. Felix is certain it’s from the spirits. Either way, it’s disgusting.

“He’s throwing a tantrum. Go set a bath, alright?”

Lysithea nods, and suddenly Felix is left alone with Sylvain.

“Alright. You need to help me here, okay?” Sylvain doesn’t answer, but Felix doesn’t think he’d be able to regardless. The viscous liquid spreads across the entire floor, sticky and thick as Felix hoists Sylvain over his arm. “Sothis, you’re heavy. Perhaps all my cooking has made you grow soft.”

Somewhere along the way, Sylvain’s towel falls off. Felix only realizes it when he hears a quiet thud, looking down to notice a bare rump and a towel that no longer sits upon his waist. With a strangled cough and a look of clear abashment, Felix averts his eyes and continues up the stairs.

Lysithea has already got the bath running, if the hot steam now escaping through the cracks of the bathroom door say anything. “Felix! The tub is almost full. Can I help with anything else?”

Felix’s only visible response is a shake of his head. “No. Thank you.” He briefly considers patting her head in a gesture of gratitude, but with the way it’s now covered in a layer of thick slime, he decides against it. Instead, the child leaves, and Felix takes it upon himself to shut and lock the door.

“Oh, Sylvain,” Felix says with a little sigh. “Are you always like this?”

There’s no response. At least, not until a gentle cloth rises to wipe away grime from Sylvain’s face. For a moment, Sylvain says nothing, and Felix presumes it takes every ounce of courage the wizard has to turn solemn eyes upon him. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know such a man could be so fickle.” His hands are hovering over Sylvain’s chest. He doesn’t think he should touch him. But he still wants to, wants to ghost fingers over a chest and cup a cheek through featherlight dexterity alone. A forbidden part of Felix wonders what Sylvain’s mouth upon his would taste like, if only the wizard would move to kiss him.

He doesn’t dare linger and find out.

“Downstairs,” Sylvain suddenly says, “you mentioned having a brother. You never told me that before.” And then, a little more hesitantly, “do you miss him?”

The question lingers in the air for far longer than either of them feel comfortable with. When Felix speaks, he sounds not like a dying man, but a boy. He feels like a part of himself has withered away regardless. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t think I could see him again.” There are too many regrets, too many unspoken words. Glenn’s touch still ghosts his hair. It’s hard to imagine the weaponsmith would be the last place his brother reached out for him.

“I know a thing or two about not wanting to see brothers.” Sylvain isn’t looking at him, and he could have fooled a stranger as the perfect image of grace and relaxation. But there’s a curl to his bottom lip, one Felix has become familiar with when Sylvain is in a foul mood.

Silence. “What is his name?”

Sylvain smiles. “It was Miklan. He’s dead.” His eyes lack warmth when they turn their sights onto Felix. But there’s still a familiarity there regardless. “What is your brother’s name?”

“Glenn.”

Sylvain rises, wraps a towel around his waist, and steps out of the bathtub. “I think Glenn would want to see you again, if it’s any consolation.”

When his company exits, and the bedroom door across the hall opens, Felix slumps forward. Are these what Glenn’s hands will look like in several decades? Staring down at the wrinkled skin, his brow creases. There’s an afterthought then, of smooth hands that never would see the light of old age. Hands that were skilled in craft and kind against skin, and when he thinks of fingers braiding hair and a casket in the cold ground, he nearly throws up.

It’s too painful to think about a world where Glenn dies young.

Instead, Felix rises, staring out through the open window. The breeze stirs his hair, and he imagines it’s his brother reaching to twirl bangs once more. “Perhaps,” Fe says to the wind, “you’re right.”

He hopes his words are carried home.


End file.
